She moves closer and puts her arms around him as he lies on his side. He is shivering. Her skin feels cool against his, her breasts press into his back and he feels the floss of her pubic hair against his thigh.

“This is weird,” he says.

“You’re sick.”

“That ain’t what I mean.”

She shushes him again and rubs his stomach and wraps her hand around his penis. Not moving, just resting it there. Cool and considerate.

“This all right?”

“Yeah.”

She moves her hand slightly back and forth.

“You’re sick, Simon. You got this thing inside you.”

“Will I get better?”

“Your body’ll get used to it. You’ll feel better.”

“How do you know?”

“I’m studying to be a nurse. Now be quiet. I’m tryin to get some sleep.”

Her hand keeps moving and Simon tenses his legs against the sheets and she keeps touching him, moving her hand slowly.

“I can hear it.”

“Shhhh.”

“Portland is better than Park Avenue. Me and my brother used to call it Better Not Street, as in Better Not Park. That used to be a nice neighborhood. Rich neighborhood.”

“Be quiet.”

“I can hear I-94 now.”

“Shhh.”

“I can hear all those cars, those people. I know where we are.”

24

Vera and Lester grow comfortable with each other quickly. They could be walking down the street, not talking, commentary on the sad buildings unnecessary. Not daring to ask about or discuss the future.

“My mother makes the best soup,” she would say.

“Mac and cheese, stew if we’re lucky.”

He is in love with her strangeness. The Polish and Yiddish words so different, so unbelievably thick and consonant. When she talks about her parents, or life at home, he feels thin, his language smooth and plain. With her he feels strangely American.

It is May and they are on their way to the train. They know it is the last time. Soon it will be gone, cut up and carted away.

They hold hands.

As they turn from the street onto the service road the trainyard comes into view and their hearts quicken. They have not grown tired or casual with each other’s bodies, and probably never will. Each time they fuck it is an experiment. They are young. When they fuck they try on different emotions—anger, tenderness, pride—the way children try on their parents’ clothes.

They worm through a break in the fence and look both ways for the bull, as if crossing the street. They don’t see him and walk directly up to the train and climb on. There are only two cars left. By Tuesday they will be gone. Without the others, the last remaining sleeping car feels more like a boat than a train. They undress on the bunk.

The ceiling is too low and the bed too narrow for the striptease of lovemaking.